The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [375]
“Just a call?”
“Very simple.”
“Then do it.”
“All right, but it’ll cost you.”
Because she recognized the gleam in his eye, she narrowed her own. “Get out. I’m not paying for information with sex.”
“Consider it taking one for the team,” he suggested, and tumbled her into the sleep chair.
By the time she’d paid up, her ears were ringing and every ounce of tension had melted out of her body. It seemed her bones had melted along with it as she discovered when she tried to stand.
She wore only her boots and the diamond pendant he’d once given her.
“You know if you hadn’t become a cop, you might have had a future in porn vids. And I mean that in the best possible way. Christ, Eve, you’re a picture.”
“Don’t even think about trying for a second round. I want that data, pal.”
“A deal’s a deal.” He rose, fluidly, wearing nothing but his grin. “Why don’t you order us up a meal of some sort,” he suggested as he started for his office. “I’m starving.”
She watched him go. Talk about pictures, she thought. If she didn’t consider herself on duty, she’d have been tempted to sprint after him, tackle him, and sink her teeth into his really superior ass.
Instead she’d settle for an AutoChef burger.
She leaned down, scooped up her clothes.
“Catch!”
She straightened and, as her arms were full, took the robe he tossed her in the face.
“Might as well be comfortable,” he said. “And oh, darling? I could use a glass of wine.”
Chapter 15
A cheeseburger wouldn’t have been his first choice, particularly with the Savignon Blanc ’55. But it was Eve’s show.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this guy before?”
He watched Eve shake a blizzard of salt over her fries, and winced. “Had your blood pressure checked lately?”
“Just answer the question.”
“You had a lot of irons in the fire, so I took this one. Stiles was bound to be more cooperative with me than with you. As illustrated by the fact that after only minimal grousing, he’s digging through his files and his memory. You’ll have your data by the time we finish this delightfully adolescent meal. More onion rings?”
“You trust him?”
“I do, yes. Stiles makes a career out of being irritable, but under the rough exterior is an equally rough but honest interior. You’d like him.”
It was plain Roarke did, and she trusted his instincts. “What I need is project staff who got a little too involved with the experimentation. People who might have taken it home with them. Their family, friends, associates.”
“And so I explained. Relax, Lieutenant, or you’ll give yourself indigestion.” He watched her scarf up onion rings. “Though that’s pretty much a given in any case.”
“You’re just sulking because I didn’t pick out rack of lamb or something. The murders are connected to the project. It just follows logic. You have to figure supply and intent. You don’t pick these particular illegals up on the street. Derivatives, diluted clones, but not the pure goods.”
She lifted her wineglass, studied the pale gold liquid. “Just like this stuff. You can’t walk into the corner liquor store, a twenty-four–seven and cop a bottle of this. You can get cheap substitutes, inferior, what do you call them, labels, but for the snooty stuff you need a high-end supplier and the wherewithal.”
“Or your own vineyard.”
“Or your own vineyard,” she agreed. “You got that, you can drink it like water. He doesn’t settle for substitutes. He’s better than that, deserves the very best. The best illegals, the best wines, the best clothes. And the women of his choice. Just another commodity.”
“He has the means to indulge himself, in every vice. Isn’t it probable he’s worked his way up to this ultimate indulgence?”
“Yeah, if you go by percentages, probabilities of profiling. But there’s more to it, because there are two of them. Teamwork, competition, mutual dependence. The first one fucked up. He hadn’t worked his way up to killing yet, so he panicked. But that